Chapter Text
Dennis had a feeling that today was going to be a bad day. Maybe it had something to do with the haunted dream he had last night, ghosts from his past coming to pay a visit, the calendar today marking the 9th year anniversary of when he got kicked out of home for being gay.
To start off, he nearly slept through his alarm, thus causing him to be abruptly awoken by Trinity banging on his bedroom door, warning him that he’d have to walk to work if he didn’t get his ass in gear. This, in turn, caused him to roll out of bed in a half-dazed panic, smacking his cheek into the floor with the grace of a wet cat.
Which brings him to the present, currently staring up at Dr.Robby’s concerned brown eyes as the older man's fingers gently probe the bruise no doubt forming on his cheek.
Dennis feels himself turn red as he’s brought back to the present. His shift had just begun and the two of them were standing in nurse central. The moment Dr.Robby saw the mark on Dennis’s cheek he immediately pulled him aside to investigate. “Uh, sorry?” Dennis says, watching the way Dr.Robby’s eyebrow rises in question. “Could you repeat that?” Stop daydreaming idiot! God, it’s hard to pay attention with the man's fingers gently touching him.
“Whitaker, I asked what happened,” Dr.Robby sighs, removing his fingers from Dennis’s face. He nearly sighs in disappointment, but luckily catches himself. Calm down.
“Oh, uh.. I just slipped getting out of bed,” he replies hastily, missing the sensation of Dr.Robby's touch, half a mind to tell him to touch it again. He’d make himself fall out of bed everyday if it meant that he would get to feel his fingers on his skin. Stop it, he chides himself. Now is not the time to get a semi thinking about all the other places he would rather have the man’s fingers on.
“I see,” Dr.Robby replies, as he gives Dennis one last look over. “Be more careful next time, okay?” A kind smile appears, and Dennis feels like he might pass out from being on the receiving end of it. The way the corner of his eyes crinkle and how his glasses slide a little lower down his nose and-
“Uh, yes- yes sir! I will,” Dennis breathes out, quickly nodding in confirmation. One last smile from Dr.Robby, and then the man turns away to get to work. Dennis bounces on the balls of his feet for a moment, to expel the extra energy from being so close, before picking a new patient from the board. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees Dana, who sends him a knowing smirk and raised brow before disappearing from his line of sight.
Dennis replays the interaction in his head as he makes his way to his patient. After working with Dr.Robby in the ED for over a year now, he would have thought that his silly crush would fade. But if anything, it’s getting stronger. He finds it harder and harder to stop thinking about him, craving his touch… It doesn't help that Dr.Robby always seems to be touching him, either. Whether it's guiding his path with his palms on his shoulders, or the more gentle touch when demonstrating a procedure, Dennis feels like everytime he sees Dr.Robby he can guarantee some sort of physical contact occurring.
Was he imagining it? No, of course not. Dennis likes to think of himself as being a fairly observant person. He knows that Dr.Robby is not nearly as touchy with his other fellow colleagues as he is with him. Or maybe he is, and I'm just looking for something to feed my delusions.
Dennis lets out a huff of air, trying to clear his mind. Just focus on your patients, Dennis. He thinks to himself as he pulls the curtains back for his first patient of the day. Your existential crisis and gay panic can wait.
~*~*~*~*~
Five hours and six scrub changes later, Dennis takes a seat at one of the computers by the nurses station to catch up on some charting and take a sip of water. Today has been brutal so far. Getting covered in all sorts of bodily fluid did wonders for the human psyche. Dennis shakes his head as he lets out a huff of air. Why is it always me?
“We got a trauma coming in less than 2 minutes people!” Dana suddenly shouts out from beside him, startling him enough to cause him to promptly spill his water down the front of his shirt. Oh come on- “Car versus pedestrian.”
Dennis immediately springs out of his seat, groaning inwardly as he takes in the front of his wet shirt. “Sorry kid,” Dana calls out, as Dennis places his now empty water bottle on the desk.
“It’s alright,” he replies. “I’ll just go change really quick-”
“No time, Whitaker!” Hands are suddenly on his shoulder, steering him towards the ambulance bay. “You’re with me. Gown up.” Dr. Robby says, taking a glance down the front of Dennis’s shirt.
Dennis shivers under his gaze. The sudden movement causes his wet shirt to stick to his chest, his nipples pebbling and becoming very sensitive to the cold and wet fabric. Oh my god this is so embarrassing. Dennis watches Dr.Robby’s eyes glance at his chest, knowing that he must be seeing what Dennis is feeling. His face flushes when Dr.Robby’s eyes meet his own, something hidden behind the older man's eyes that Dennis can't quite make out before he steps aside, gowning up for the incoming trauma.
“Uhm, it’ll dry,” Dr.Robby clears his throat, tying his own gown as Dennis does the same. Dennis thinks that his voice is a little more gruff, his eyes lingering on his chest a little longer than perhaps strictly professional… Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
Before he can think much further about Dr.Robby’s actions, the ambulance arrives and they dart out to meet it.
This patient is a wreck. An absolute laundry list of injuries.
“17 year old male, pedestrian vs vehicle. GCS 6, hypotensive and tachycardic. BP’s 81 over 39.” The parametric lists off as they wheel their patient through the trauma bay. “He was awake and alert in the ambulance but lost consciousness approximately two minutes ago.”
“Santos!” Dr.Robby calls out to Trinity who is the closest nearby. “Gonna need you on this one too.” Trinity nods in confirmation, immediately stepping in beside Dennis.
Dennis takes mental notes of the info the paramedics ramble off and hurries alongside the gurney as Dr.Robby leads them into trauma room 1. “Found his ID in his pocket during the ride over- his name is Spencer Holts.” They pull into the room and Jesse is already there, readying the supplies.
“Ok transfer on 3,” Dr.Robby leads, immediately taking charge and assessing the situation. “Whitaker, ABCDE’s, Santos, you’re on EFAST.”
Like a well oiled machine, they work together in sync. “Okay airway looks clear, breath sounds diminished on the left,” Dennis calls out. “Possible pneumothorax.” He glances down to the patient's leg. “And an open tibial fracture, significant bleeding..” He hurries a tourniquet.
Dr.Robby rubs the patient's sternum, earning a pained groan escaping the patient's lips. “Hey Spencer!” He calls out. “You with us?” The boy immediately starts panicking, the pain of his injuries causing him to move. “Push two of morphine and put him on non-rebreather oxygen.”
The patient is clutching the base of his neck, and with gentle hands Dennis pries his fingers away, worrying there might be another injury hiding. What nearly stops him in his tracks is the sight of a silver cross pendant, splattered in blood. Dennis’s blood runs cold, and he pauses, but only for a second before being thrust back into the reality of the situation.
Get your head in the game. He thinks to himself, continuing to try and stabilize the boy's injuries. His eyes keep floating back to the pendant, though.
“I-I’m s-” the patient rasps out, his hand grabbing Dennis’s arms with a lot more strength than expected.
Dr.Robby looks up from where he and Santos are trying to stabilize a nasty bleed in the patient's leg. The boy starts moving wildly again in panic. “Whitaker, try to keep him calm. Keep him awake.”
Dennis nods before leaning in closer to hear what the boy was trying to say. “Hey kid, keep talking, try and stay awake for me okay-”
“I’m sorry,” the boy cries out, and it’s like a dam has burst from behind his eyes. “It-it’s all” he takes a shuddering breath, the best he can with his injuries. “It's all my fault.” Another half choked sob. “ I-if we… confess our sins, he is faithful and just… to forgive us.” Dennis’s eyes widen at what he hears. “I-I gotta…. call, mom, tell her… ‘m sorry,” the boy is gasping now.
“Hey! Hey calm down, it-it’s gonna be alright,” Dennis says, trying his best to stay present. That verse is too familiar, too much, just stop it stop thinking about the past just get over it-
“Heartrates 141 and climbing,” Jesse warns. The monitors start beeping in warning.
“We’ve almost got it-” Santos breathes out. “Just hold on a little longer.” Dr.Robby is now right across from Dennis, working on the head lac streaming a steady flow. He catches Dennis’s gaze, seeing more than just the stress of the current trauma swimming in his eyes.
“Just… Gotta..,” the boy chokes out, and then promptly starts coughing up his own blood.
~*~*~*~*~
“-itaker? Whitaker?”
“Huh, what?” Dennis stumbles back from the man in front of him. Oh, it’s Dr.Robby. He’s leaning against the wall in the break room, face etched with concern.
“You alright? I know that was a lot just now, but you know you did everything that you could…” Dr.Robby continues on, but Dennis is no longer hearing him. Right. The patient. The blood. Begging for forgiveness. The heart that refused to keep beating… Why did he…
“That verse,” Dennis trails off, more to himself than anyone, forgetting about the conversation he was in the midst of with Dr.Robby. Why did he have to say that? Today of all days. The same verse his mother cried out in hysterics when his father found out he kissed another boy behind the shed. The same verse she repeated over and over as he was told to get out of the house and to not come back until he’s made himself right with God. He almost deluded himself into forgetting that detail, from all those years ago.
“Whitaker.”
Was this Gods doing? Dennis thinks to himself humorlessly. Sending that boy here, as a messenger? To needlessly die to get his parents long since forgotten point across? To remind him that he’s never truly free from himself? He shakes his head, the cross and chain around his own neck feeling too much like a vice.
“Dennis.” At that, his mind stops spinning. Dr.Robby never calls him Dennis.
“Oh, uh..” He’s forced back into the present. Dr.Robby’s eyes are full of concern. “I'm- I’m good! I’m good. Just need a break for a sec.”
Dr.Robby hums, taking a seat at the table across from where Dennis is standing. Was that a hum of agreement, or of disappointment? Dennis can't tell. He needs to get a grip before he makes an even bigger fool of himself.
Silence falls between the two of them. Dr.Robby watches Dennis, eyes flicking between the sweat on his brow and the way Dennis has one hand rubbing the back of his neck. The younger man pointedly looking anywhere but Dr.Robby’s face.
“Okay, breaks are good.” Dr.Robby starts, leaning back in his chair. “If you ever need to talk, just know I can lend an ear to whatever’s on your mind.” Dennis’s own ears turn red at that. Him? Talking to Dr.Robby about what’s on his mind? He nearly laughs. HR would have a field day with that, nevermind the fact that he would probably be disgusted with me if he found out how I really feel about him..
Dennis takes a long moment, longer than is necessary, to respond with a simple ‘thank you’.
Another beat of silence, the gears in Dr.Robby's head turning. “Dr.McKay needs some help in chairs,” he starts, getting out of his seat. “I’m having you assigned there to help out for the rest of your shift.”
Dennis’s heart drops. “Wait, what?” He asks, reaching out to grasp Dr.Robby's arm to stop him from leaving. “You’re sending me to chairs because I needed a minute?” This can’t be happening. I'm not benched, am I? Is this what benching people in the ED is like? Do I look like a weak link to him now? His thoughts are flying. “I- I can stay, I’m good.”
“Whitaker,” Dr.Robby says not unkindly, meeting the younger man's eyes. “This is not a punishment to you. McKay really does just need some help, and maybe after losing that last patient a reprieve from the chaos of the trauma bay isn't the worst idea.”
Maybe Dr.Robby is right. Or maybe it’s just because this day is cursed. Sensing that he won’t take no for an answer, Dennis just nods. “Okay.. yeah, no problem.”
“Good, good,” Dr.Robby says, glancing down to the hand still attached to his forearm, a soft smile, ghosting against his lips. Dennis quickly pulls it back, heat rushing to his face again.
Dennis watches his back as Dr.Robby walks away, hand still tingling from the contact.
~*~*~*~*~
There’s 90 minutes left in his shift when Dr.McKay comes up to Dennis, who just finished discharging a patient. “Hey Whitaker,” she says, holding out a chart for him to grab. “Nice work on that last one. Ms. Cooper and her son are next on the list. I have to finish a saline flush in bay 7 but if you bring them to bay 9 I’ll be there shortly.”
“Sounds good,” Dennis replies, taking the chart from Dr.McKay before heading for the double doors that lead to the waiting room. The rest of this shift hasn't been so bad after all, Dennis thinks to himself, going over the chart while walking. Less than two hours to go then I can go home and eat take out with Trinity and forget all about this day. He pushes through the double doors while reading the intake chart, noting that Melissa Cooper is here due to a possible broken wrist. Quick x-ray and exam should be easy enough to determine the damage.
“Ms. Melissa Cooper?” Dennis calls out to the crowded room. Usually, Lupe would page but she’s busy dealing with another intake, so he has to call out himself. A woman with deep red hair jerks up at Dennis’s call, grip tightening for a fraction of second on the young boy next to her. Her son, Dennis presumes.
He makes his way over to where she’s sitting, taking clear inventory of the way her right wrist is curled protectively against her chest and the purplely green bruise flowering along her very clearly injured wrist. The bruising looks a few days old already…
“Are you Ms. Cooper?” Dennis asks softly, noting how the young boy, no older than 6 with hair matching his mother, is leaning completely into her side, half his face covered by her sweater.
“Um, yes…” The woman, Melissa, replies. Deep brown eyes looking up to meet Dennis. He can't help but notice the discoloration peaking out above the turtle neck she’s wearing. Warning bells start going off in his head as he motions for them to stand up and follow him. Injury appears to be a few days old, jumpy nature, potentially hidden injuries… Yeah, something tells Dennis this isn’t just a typical ‘slip and fell’ accident. Once I get them in a room, I’ll discuss the next steps with McKay and hopefully get to the bottom of this…
Just as the mother is helping her son out of the chair, a commotion at the entrance of the waiting room causes everyone to pause. What is..?
“Sir! You can’t just barge in here like this!” A security guard shouts, trailing behind a man with a determined look in his eyes.
“I know she’s in here, that bitch!” The man yells back, hurrying his steps into the waiting room. The rest of those in the waiting room freeze when the man rushes in, scanning the place. Dennis freezes when he hears Melissa behind him let out a muffled cry. He turns to look and she has her hand over her mouth, tears springing from her eyes in fear. What is going…
Dennis turns around again, facing the man, taking it in. His stringy blonde hair, hands deep in his leather jacket, and his sharp blue eyes locking on to the woman and her son behind him.
“You thought I wouldn't track your location, huh? Trying to take my son away from me?” The man spits out. Dennis shifts, moving to block the woman and her son from this clearly deranged man.
“N-no, honey, I-”
“Oh, save it. You,” he glares at Dennis, moving closer until he’s about six feet away. “Get the fuck out of the way. I'm taking my wife and son home now.”
Dennis realises this situation is bad. Very bad. But he also knows there’s no way in Hell he’s letting this man touch his patient or her kid. “I’m sorry sir but I can’t- I can’t do that.”
“The fuck did you just say?”
He sees the security guard out of the corner of his eye, moving closer to the man. Unfortunately, the man sees him too, and that's when everything goes to shit.
It all happens very quickly.
The man pulls a gun out of his jacket pocket and aims it right at Dennis. “I wasn’t fuckin’ asking.”
That’s when the other patients in the waiting room start screaming.
Jolted by the sound and panic, the man's muscles tighten and he pulls the trigger.
~*
~*
~*
Dennis’s ears are ringing.
Are they ringing? Or is that someone's phone? He thinks weakly, looking up at the waiting room's ceiling. How.. how did I get here?
His heart rates going a mile a minute, blood pounding in his head as he takes stock of what’s going on. The back of his head is throbbing in time with his rapid heart, and his chest
Warmth, hot and spikey, pools down his sides and across his belly. Pressure builds on his chest and Dennis tries to take a deep breath, only to realize he can't.
What..
He tries to move his hand, to push away whatever must be sitting on his chest, when a sharp, agonizing pain rips through him, like he’s being torn open into two.
“Nngh,” Dennis gasps out, black spots blurring his vision. Why do I hurt so much… why am I on the floor?
“What the fuck happened in here?” A voice shouts.
“Ahmad, get him out of here before I kill that sonofabitch myself.” Another, deeper voice bellows.
Dennis tries to follow along to what he hears around him, but it’s so hard. Who are they talking about? Why does that man sound so familiar? Why are people screaming?
A shadow falls across his face. Then hands, lots of hands are on him. His face, his shoulders. A set of hands finds his chest and he nearly screams out in pain, he would've, too, if his lungs could spare enough oxygen to pass through his vocal cords.
“-nnis! Dennis!” The older man, who sounded angry earlier Dennis notes, shouts. Too loud. He wants to say, but the words don't make it past his lips. Bone on bone action across his sternum draws out a low moan.
“Haah-” he breathes out, eyes fluttering closed. His chest feels like it’s on fire.
“Fucking shit-“
“You gotta stay awake for me, kiddo. Fuck!” Dr.Robby, Dennis’s mind conjures up his face. Dr.Robby, is that you? “GSW to the chest- I need him on a fucking gurney and into a trauma bay now!”
For a moment, Dennis is weightless. Sound coming in and out of focus, but the pain in his chest continues to rise. GSW? He thinks weakly. Who got shot?
He lets out another pained gasp when he feels his back hit the gurney, and the force of it is enough to pull him from the brink of unconsciousness, adrenaline flooding his system.
Everything is starting to make a little more sense, bits and pieces of his memory falling into place as his heart thunders in his ears. The waiting room. The man. The gun…
“Please…” Dennis moans out, squeezing his eyes shut. Just make this pain stop.
“Keep those fucking eyes open, Dennis,” Dr.Robby commands him, panic lacing every word. And who is Dennis to deny such a request?
With a pained breath, Dennis opens his eyes. He wishes he hasn't. He’s being wheeled through the ED, the ceiling a blur of lights as they fly by. One blink to the next and he can tell he’s in a trauma room, one or two? and Dr.Robby is applying so much pressure to his chest, just below his sternum and it hurts. His hands are covered in blood. Too much blood.
On his other side is McKay and Dana, the former wheeling in the portable EFAST machine and the latter setting up an IV and supplies, both moving very quickly and faces etched with concern.
“Hey, you with us kid?” Dr.Robby says as he applies more pressure to staunch the bleeding. “I need you to keep your eyes open.”
Dennis’s gaze rolls to him. He tries to talk but is muffled by an oxygen mask. When did that get on?
More people rush into the room, making Dennis’s head spin as a whirlwind of action happens around him. More voices, but he can't hear anything anymore, eyes latching onto Dr.Robby's every move. When he said he wanted the older man's fingers on him, he didn’t mean like this.
Another pained gasp escapes Dennis’s lips as a central line is inserted, bringing him back from his daze. “Help me get him on his side,” Dr.Robby shouts, motioning to the person standing at the foot of the bed. Santos? Dennis thinks faintly. She shouldn't be seeing me like this- Dennis’s eyes flutter shut again. His half muddled head thinking that maybe if he can't see her, then she can't see him, either.
“Ahhgh!” Strong hands grip his shoulders and suddenly he’s rotated 90 degrees, more hands on his back as he feels his ruined top snipped off his body. His back is cold. Not just his back, Dennis realizes, everything is cold. He locks eyes with Santos, tears peeking out of the corners of her eyes. Don’t be sad…
“Fuck, no exit wound.” The hands on his shoulders lay him flat on his back once more, earning another pained breath.
“The-the bullet must be lodged somewhere in his chest,” Santos starts, watching as Dr.McKay rolls the ultrasound over his chest.
In my chest? That’s never a good sign. Dennis thinks, once again lost in his own thoughts as he hears the commotion and work around him. The pain in his chest is building again, and the pressure continues to build. He doesn’t even realize his eyes are closed again until he feels fingers, gentle, on his face and pulling his eyelids apart.
“You gotta stay awake, kid,” Dr.Robby calls again as Santos shines a penlight into his eyes. He squints at the harsh light.
“It… hurts,” Dennis finally manages to speak more than a groan.
“Pupils are a little sluggish,” Santos warns, moving to feel the back of his skull. “Back of his head is tender, probably a concussion? Dennis, do you remember falling?”
No, I don’t remember falling, Dennis wants to answer. He sucks in a deep breath. Well, tries to. He can only manage a short gasp before he starts coughing, each shake of his shoulders sending agonizing pain down his torso. The taste of blood coats his mouth, the coppery tang making him feel nauseous.
“Fuck, Dennis-” Santos curses, quickly pulling the mask off. “P-possible pneumothorax.” She quickly grabs the suction to help him breathe a little easier.
“Bullet entry in between the fourth and fifth rib…” McKay calls out, moving the ultrasound wand across his bloodied torso. “Left lung is… Shit- completely collapsed,” McKay confirms. “Chest and lung cavity is filling with fluid.”
“Do you see where the bullet is lodged?” Dr.Robby demands, eyes zeroing in on the portable monitor.
“Help roll him on his side for a second,” McKay says, “Let’s look at his back…”
Without a moment's hesitation, Dr.Robby has his hands on the younger man.s body, helping manipulate his position to allow McKay quick access.
Another moment passes as McKay moves the wand, eyes glued to the screen. “Hahhh… Ah! I see it!” She lets out a breath. “Looks to be lodged right in his fourth posterior rib, about…” she moves the wand some more, “4 inches from the T4 vertebra.”
Gently, Dr.Robby returns Dennis’s body to the bed.
“Fuck,” Santos breathes out at the head of the bed. “O2 sats are dropping!”
“Dana, page surgery, tell them to get their ass down here now.” Dr.Robby roars out. “McKay, you’re on chest tube. We need to get this pressure off his heart and his working lung.”
Dennis opens his eyes once more, aware of Dr.Robby’s presence at his head. He feels wetness on his cheeks. Am I crying right now? Dr.Robby’s face is grim, eyebrows furrowed together in frustration and panic, reminding Dennis all too well of what he looked like in pedes during his first day here… “I’m- ‘m sorry,” Dennis gasps out. I have to apologize for making him so sad. This is all my fault. “God, it just hurts.” Dennis starts shaking now, the pressure in his chest and the feeling of McKays hands practically inside his ribs too much for him to bear.
“Dana, push two more of morphine and 3 of lorazepam.” More monitors start beeping, warning signals for things worse to come. “O2 is down it 71, heartrate at 143, Fuck we’re gonna have to intubate-” Dr.Robby shakes his head, barely containing his trembling hands on either side of Dennis’s face.
Dennis’s heartrate reaches a crescendo in his ears, blocking out any further sounds in the room. He looks up at the older man above him, everything moving in slow motion. His body doesn't feel so cold anymore. His colleagues rush around him, but all he can do is watch Dr.Robby’s face as the man stares back into his eyes. I’m sorry. He wants to say. His heart is like a stampede in his chest, banging against his ribs. The blood pouring out of his chest cooling against his skin, but he can’t feel it. He knows what that means.
Am I really gonna die?
He manages to let out a choked sigh. Was now really his time? Maybe the patient from this morning was a sign from God. A latch ditch effort to get him to change his ways before punishment was served?
I didn’t listen.
Strong hands work his jaw open, the edge of an intubation tube visible out of the corners of his eyes. Another strangled breath, more of a sob, really, escapes his cracked lips.
There was so much I wanted to do.
There’s so many things I want to say.
Robby..
With trembling fingers, Dennis manages to move his right hand high enough to grasp the worn pendant hanging on his neck. The corners of the cross dig into his palm, hard enough to break the skin.
Oh father, who art in heaven…
Dennis closes his eyes.
If we confess our sins.
He can just make out more monitors blaring over the roaring in his own ears. Frantic shouting just above his head.
He is faithful and just.
More blood coats his mouth. Someone rubs his sternum but he can hardly feel it.
To forgive our sins.
Dennis’s eyelids are forced open. Blurry shapes come into focus and he can just make out Dr.Robby hovering above him, panic carved into every line of the older man's face. His eyes are wide, desperate, his mouth moving quickly, but Dennis can't hear a single word.
Out of all the sound in the room, his ears only focus on one thing. The erratic beeping of his heart monitor.
It races, then stumbles, then skips.
Dr.Robby's hands are on him now, firm and insistent. But it’s no use.
The beeping quickens its pace. The skips and stumbles becoming more common.
Then it falters.
And in that moment Dennis feels it. A final, pitiful beat in his chest.
Robby..
Then nothing, as the monitor stretches into one long, unbroken tone.